


Sellsword

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aramis has two choices.</i>
</p><p><i>He can put on his best impassive face with just a hint of offence, and inform this attractive stranger in no uncertain terms that madame is joking, and he is very much </i>not<i> on the menu. Then after a second he'll slide his sword just an inch out from its sheath, enough to draw the man's attention to the sound of metal, and make it clear that he will be backing up his position using force if necessary.</i></p><p>
  <i>Or, he can lead the gentleman upstairs and fuck him for money.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sellsword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mackem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/gifts).



> For [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=10758) kink meme prompt: "The Musketeers need to get somebody working undercover in a brothel, and Aramis volunteers."
> 
> I've imagined the character of Thierry as being played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

"No," Athos says, looking around the table for support and finding none. "No!"

Porthos grins at Aramis and shrugs. d'Artagnan giggles.

Aramis sighs and leans forward, putting his elbows on the table and looking steadily at Athos with his best 'I promise this isn't as much of a terrible plan as it sounds' face. "It's the only way I can see us getting anywhere. If one of their girls is passing on information, then the only way to know _which_ girl is by having someone on the inside. We can hardly tail all of them. Look, I happen to know the madam."

"You _happen_ to know the madam." Athos repeats, clearly unconvinced.

Aramis smiles and spreads his hands in what's intended as a gesture of honesty. "She's an old friend."

"And this _is_ a normal brothel," Athos says, a statement rather than a question, with an all-too-knowing look; and Aramis curses him silently, curses himself for ever having gone to Athos for help – and then curses the man twice over in his filthiest Spanish as he realises that Porthos is now looking at him too with a question in his eyes.

Porthos is the last person he ever needs to talk to about this. And he's even including d'Artagnan in that, who's looking between the three of them with an air of distinct confusion. Trust the bloody Gascon to need it explaining to him.

Aramis rolls his eyes, hoping he can at least channel the sudden spike of fear in his chest into something that looks like exasperation. "Of course, it's your regular run-of-the-mill Parisian brothel. I can pose as a hired sword, because they've had some trouble recently and she wants to remind the punters that there are consequences if they don't play nicely." He puts his hand over his heart for emphasis. "No funny business. I swear."

Athos gives him a hard look in response; but after a second he inclines his head in acceptance. "Alright. But this one stays between us, and no uniforms. I doubt Tréville would be impressed."

"What other kind of brothels are there?" d'Artagnan asks.

Aramis' expected smirk is half a second too late, and while he sees Athos' lips twitch as they share a look, there is a question in the other man's eyes that Aramis is distinctly uninterested in answering.

Porthos, grinning widely, thumps d'Artagnan on the back. "We'll tell you when you're older."

* * *

Two evenings later, Aramis is positioning himself in one corner of the brothel's reception room, half-hidden from view behind a floor-length curtain, but still with a good line of sight to the front door. He shifts his shoulders, trying to compensate for the uncomfortably tight stretch of his old jacket across his back. It's a good year since he's last worn the beat-up leathers from when he first came to Paris, and while they were never a particularly good fit, he's broadened out enough to make them distinctly unpleasant.

With neither hat nor pistol he feels strangely vulnerable, for all that he doesn't expect to even draw his sword tonight – the said sword a bit too fine for his outfit, but he reasons that if anyone gets a chance to get a good look at it then he's got bigger problems already.

He swallows and shifts again, affecting the posture of the low-rent soldier who's supposed to be standing alert but can't quite manage it, and trying to ignore the curious glances coming from the girls he's sharing the room with – he counts eight of them – reclining on chaises longues and waiting for customers to start filtering through the door.

He doesn't understand why he's feeling so uneasy, when all he has to do is stand here for a few hours and remember who Jean-Claude goes upstairs with.

Maybe it's the fact that he can't stop thinking about Athos' face the other night, and what his comrade suspected him of.

He almost wants to laugh. As if he'd suggest something like that, honestly. While he may be proud of his reputation as a lover, he hardly wants to be the reason for 'you shall not whore yourself out for a mission' being added to the Musketeers' code of conduct.

Added to which, Athos knows more than he should, more than Aramis would ever have divulged had he not been desperate; and the last thing he needs is for the other man to bring it up, oh, _ever._

"You alright there, handsome?" the nearest girl asks him, looking him up and down appraisingly; and he wonders for half a second what she's up to, but quickly decides that it's probably nothing. If a lady's business is making men believe she's attracted to them, then this kind of frank appreciation undoubtedly doesn't mean anything special.

"Quite alright thank you, mademoiselle," he replies, going to tip his hat before he realises he's not wearing it, and running a hand through his hair instead. "Édith's got me in as security, just for a couple of days, there's been some nasty business in a few of the other brothels in this area. You shouldn't be worried though, I'm just here to look threatening and remind the punters not to get any ideas."

"Ah, you're here, monsieur…" Édith herself says, bustling into the room in a swirl of faded silks and looking as much of as an old battle-axe as ever. Aramis would swear she's fifty if she's a day, a prostitute since her teens and a madam since her thirties, and still going strong. He's always rather liked her.

"Bellanger," he supplies.

"Monsieur Bellanger, of course," she replies ironically. "Glad to have you."

Once Édith's settled herself in ready for business, the girls don't bother with him any more, and just spend the evening gossiping with each other whenever they're not being taken upstairs. Aramis concentrates on slouching and looking a bit bored, while really he's listening in with a sharp ear, trying to learn as much about them as he can. At the same time he's keeping one eye on the punters, though making sure it's not obvious that he's watching, Édith having promised he'll be out on his ear pretty quickly if he appears to be scaring away business.

Jean-Claude turns up after about two hours, striding into the brothel decisively, but pausing for a moment when he sees Aramis.

Aramis can feel the man's eyes on him as Édith explains his presence, and slouches just a little further against the wall, deliberately letting out a half-stifled yawn. It seems to do the trick, as Jean-Claude beckons towards the chaises longues and then disappears upstairs with one of the brunettes, Aramis can't see which.

Once they're out of sight he glances quickly back towards the girls – Maria's still there, so it's Élodie he's with. It's a stroke of luck really, Jean-Claude coming in tonight and them having the necessary information already. Certainly good for the mission. Though the downside for Aramis is that he's asked Édith for a week of this, which hardly promises to be fun.

Time passes at a crawl after that, the only thing breaking up the tedium being snatches of conversations he overhears from the girls – which are mostly tedious and occasionally eye-opening, as he would expect when one's business is sexual intercourse. He continues to keep a vague eye on the punters coming through the door just for something to do, but pays about as much attention as a genuine low-rent sellsword would, life imitating art.

Which makes him all the more startled when he realises one of the punters – stood in the middle of the room to cast his eye over the girls, as those who aren't regulars tend to do – is looking at him instead.

He meets the man's gaze briefly before remembering that's exactly the opposite of what he's supposed to be doing, and looks quickly back at the wall. But he's had a chance to see that the man is good looking, _very_ good looking: pale, northern skin, high cheekbones, and a confident, penetrating stare that Aramis imagines works very well at commanding the attention of those around him.

On those occasions when Aramis chooses to take his pleasure with members of his own sex, this man is _exactly_ what he likes.

And it seems that he's accidentally sent some sort of a message to that end, as the man strides over to stand in front of Aramis, something amused in his expression. "And how much for _you_?" he drawls.

He's almost obscenely well-spoken.

 _Oh shit,_ Aramis thinks frantically _._ This was _not_ part of the plan.

He focuses on a spot on the wall over the man's shoulder where the plaster has chipped away, refusing to meet his eyes a second time. "I'm merely the security, monsieur," he replies, as neutrally as possible. "Perhaps you should see one of the girls."

Unfortunately, his rebuff doesn't have the intended effect. The man actually _chuckles._

Aramis can't help it any longer, he meets the man's eyes; and his stranger smirks at him knowingly, before calling out to Édith without even breaking eye contact. "Madame! How much for this one?"

Aramis looks over at her reflexively: and the sly old fox winks at him very deliberately before calling back, "Double!"

Aramis knows he's staring, and feels his knuckles are white on his sword hilt. What _is_ she doing, when his supposed purpose here is to _prevent_ trouble –

And then it hits him: she's giving him permission.

He has two choices.

He can put on his best impassive face with just a hint of offence, and inform this attractive stranger in no uncertain terms that madame is joking, and he is very much _not_ on the menu. Then after a second he'll slide his sword just an inch out from its sheath, enough to draw the man's attention to the sound of metal, and make it clear that he will be backing up his position using force if necessary.

 _Or,_ he can lead the gentleman upstairs and fuck him for money.

And he'd be a liar if he claimed he's never thought about it, ever since he realised they needed to get inside the brothel, never wondered what it'd be like to have someone walk in that door and choose him, and give them his body in exchange for coin.

He'd also be a liar if he claimed the idea isn't distinctly enticing.

This may be the best chance he ever gets to put his fantasy into practice. And at no dishonour to this establishment, apparently.

Something lurches in his stomach as he realises that this has been the source of his nerves: both the possibility that it could happen, and the fact that this is what Athos has probably been afraid of.

One thing's for sure, he's never bloody involving Édith in a mission again. She knows him too well.

The man raises an eyebrow at him. "Well?"

Time to make his choice.

Aramis straightens up and raises his chin, feeling as though whoring himself out is no excuse for being undignified. He takes a deep breath. "After you, monsieur."

His stranger smiles in satisfaction. "Alright. And for this much coin you'd better be worth it."

Aramis' voice drops to something sultry, and he clasps the other man's arm for a second. "Oh, I assure you I am."

They climb the stairs in silence, and Aramis steers his stranger through the first open door they come to, into a small room with dingy, faded peach wallpaper, a massive bed and precious little else. The shutters are drawn, candles on all the flat surfaces giving off a low light.

"Wash first, please," Aramis requests, indicating a washstand off to the side; and while the other man takes care of himself, he scans the room to see what's available to him, the last thing he wants being to falter in the moment and give himself away as an amateur.

There's a generously-sized bottle of oil on a table by the bed, which he decides is the most important thing, and not much else visible to him other than the washstand where his… client, he supposes, is busy, and a large armoire that probably contains all the 'optional extras'. Certainly no personal touches; this is a room with one purpose only.

He calls upon all his military discipline to make himself stand still and not fidget, unable to work out if he's more nervous or more excited, the two emotions seeming to feed off each other in a vicious circle until he's so tightly wound he feels as though he could snap. It's the waiting that's causing it, of course, he's never been good at waiting once faced with the inevitable.

Something is definitely going to happen – but what?

It's the waiting _and_ the uncertainty, then.

"What can I call you?" he asks the other man, looking for a way to break the tension that's slowly sending him mad.

"Thierry."

"Michaud." Aramis bows his head automatically, making a mental note to change his go-to code name after this one.

Thierry finally turns back to face Aramis, re-buttoning his breeches. "It's a good ruse they've got going here, I'll give her that. Security, was it?"

Aramis smiles, shrugging slightly. "Believe it or not, I really am the security."

"Of course you are," Thierry replies, suddenly striding over to him and gripping his shoulder, hard, leaning in to mouth at his jaw. Aramis breathes in the scent of Thierry's sweat – a clean, masculine smell – and my God, he's missed this, it's been far too long.

"Soldier, are you? I love a good soldier," Thierry continues, in between open-mouthed kisses to Aramis' jaw and neck. "Lots of buggery in the army, I'd imagine."

 _Oh_ , Aramis thinks, with a flush of pleasure – and confidence. _Now_ he feels completely at ease.

Now he knows the game, he can start to play.

"Constantly. My – my commanding officer," he affects a stutter, "got me a taste for it." Thierry is taller by half a head, and Aramis looks up through his lashes at him, pretending modesty; though he's a full decade too old to be doing so, sometimes it just works. "Ever since then I just can't get enough."

And he's hit his mark: Thierry's pupils dilate, before the other man dips back in to suddenly bite his earlobe, and Aramis lets out a groan, raggedly, as if he'd tried and failed to stifle it.

"Then our interests align perfectly," Thierry replies, the intensity of his gaze almost difficult to bear, "because I intend to fuck you into the mattress."

Aramis is half-expecting to be seized and thrown towards the bed, but instead Thierry abruptly releases his shoulder and takes a step back, folding his arms expectantly. "Now strip off and get on the bed. Hands and knees."

"Yes, sir," Aramis replies experimentally, and is rewarded with a silky, predatory smile as he undoes his baldric. "But – I'll need to prepare myself."

Thierry inclines his head with a satisfied smirk. "Be my guest. I'll enjoy watching that."

Aramis strips efficiently, keeping one eye on Thierry and trying to read the other man's mood and his desires; and he starts to realise that the appeal of this goes deeper than he realised. It's not just the desire to debase himself that turns him on, but also the opportunity to approach the act of love as a blank slate, without personality or preferences of his own, and just  become the man his lover wants him to be.

He already has a character in mind: he's unfortunately too old to be convincing as an innocent new recruit, but the older, second-rate career soldier, outwardly straight-laced but with a secret vice for getting buggered that he's never quite been able to shake? That, he can do.

As he strips off his smalls and pours himself a handful of oil, he wonders how exactly he's going to play this part. Does his client want a performer, an exhibitionist who'll look in his eyes and smile while fucking himself on his own fingers, or someone nervous, reluctant, ashamed?

Thierry's still fully-dressed, observing with arms folded, making no move to assist him and giving little away.

Aramis deliberately hesitates to see if any response is forthcoming, and simply gets a raised eyebrow for his pains. _Nervous yet determined, then_ , he decides, _facing the client and looking him in the eye, despite his own apprehension._

Fortunately, the tension in the room is so thick that he doesn't have to put much work into the fine tuning. While the combination of hesitation and compulsion is mostly artifice, his desire is thoroughly real, and the appraising eyes roaming over his body are definitely beginning to cause a reaction.

He slicks up his fingers, squatting on the bed so his arse is over his feet, and reaches back behind himself with one hand, steadying himself on the bed with the other, and holds Thierry's gaze defiantly as he pushes the first finger inside himself.

It's also been too long since he's done this.

He stretches himself just as much as he absolutely needs to, scissoring his fingers and feeling the burn of his muscles, pushing himself a little bit beyond what he normally would, if he was going to take his time. He doesn't want Thierry to get too impatient; and besides, a slow, sensuous fuck is not what the occasion calls for. He imagines he's just going to get taken. _Used_ , he thinks, the idea sending desire rushing through him.

Remembering Thierry's earlier words, he slides his fingers out of himself and surreptitiously wipes them off on a cloth before getting on his hands and knees as instructed on the edge of the bed, positioning himself in order to be easily fucked by someone standing. "Ready," he says unnecessarily.

Dropping his head to look between his legs, Aramis sees Thierry walking over to him, hands going to the buttons at his bulging crotch. At this he looks forward again, dropping to rest on his forearms. He's seen all he needs to see, he knows what's coming – Thierry is just going to unlace his prick and fuck him like this, fully clothed – and he takes a moment to savour his own anticipation, the arousal curling in his belly.

As he feels the blunt nudging at his entrance, Aramis pushes back obediently, hoping he'll get a few moments to let the intrusion settle rather than just immediate thrusting. He hisses as Thierry's cock slowly fills him, the burn as his muscles are stretched only adding to what's truly a delicious sensation.

"You're very tight for a whore," Thierry observes, sounding almost bored, and Aramis' cock jumps in response. "I'm going to enjoy this."

It's strange, but he finds himself flush with pride at his client's words. After all, if he's going to be a whore, then he wants to be the best whore he can possibly be.

And with no further ado, Thierry begins to thrust, and the groans he rips from Aramis' throat are now pure desire.

He knows he's moaning shamelessly, perhaps a bit more shamelessly than he should, but it's _so_ good and so intense, and he doesn't seek it out nearly often enough. The regular snap of hips against his arse, hands pushing on his own pelvis to rock him back and forth in counterpoint, the sensation of a cock sliding in and out of him, pushing over and over past that point that makes him see stars.

His own cock is throbbing insistently, and he's pleasantly surprised when Thierry reaches a oil-slick hand around and strokes him, at least considerate enough to want him to come too. He's tightly-wound enough that it's an effort to hold on, his arms and legs starting to tremble from holding himself up; so when Thierry comes at last with a shudder and a groan, he isn't far behind.

He gives himself a few moments to recover before getting off the bed, realising with a sigh he'll have to change the top sheet before he goes back downstairs, which is now streaked with his own come. _The things you learn._

Thierry, fully dressed again, strides over to kiss him on the cheek – which is oddly sweet, really. "I'll see you again," he murmurs, and Aramis doesn't have the heart to tell him that this is a one-time deal, looks into his eyes and almost wants to say _yes, yes you will_.

Instead he watches Thierry walk out of the room, and strips the top sheet and sponges it clean first of all (finding that the armoire is mostly full of similar sheets rather than unusual sexual aids), before attending to himself.

He mops up a dribble of come that's dripping down his inner thigh, and can't help but smile.

After cleaning himself up and dressing again, he walks carefully back downstairs, his arse already pleasantly sore, where Édith is lounging in her armchair and watching him with a knowing smirk. The few girls still downstairs are throwing him furtive glances and whispering to each other, eyes wide, and yet he's just enjoyed himself so much that he can't bring himself to be even the least bit embarrassed.

"It seems you're quite the investment," Édith says archly, by way of greeting.

Aramis raises his eyebrows. "It seems I am."

He tries to stop himself grinning stupidly. It turns out to be quite the battle.

"Got another one waiting for your services already," she replies, gesturing over to curtain he was half-concealing himself behind earlier – and he stops dead on the first step, gripping the banister in sudden apprehension as he realises there's someone on the other side, someone here for him. His view's mostly blocked, but he can see a leg. A man's leg, leather-clad, and a sheathed sword.

There's something in Édith's face he doesn't like. Once was all well and good and in the spirit of things, but if she's going to start trying to pimp him out then –

All the thoughts fall from his mind and crash somewhere down by his feet as the man stands and walks into view, and he realises that man is Porthos.

"Just what I'm looking for," he replies, staring levelly at Aramis, something dark and dangerous in his expression.

_Oh, fuck._

Aramis is a good actor when he wants to be. A _very_ good actor, and it's no more than half a second before his internal shutters slam down, a barrier against any stray thoughts, and he takes on the role of the perfect host once again.

_Or the perfect whore._

"Right this way, monsieur," he says to Porthos as if his comrade is truly a stranger, with a polite friendliness he certainly doesn’t feel, before turning abruptly and re-climbing the stairs, not waiting to see if Porthos will follow.

Aramis puts all his energy into not thinking, or feeling; there's no point getting ahead of himself before it's even clear what the situation is, what Porthos is going to say to him. What his comrade knows, or thinks he knows. Instead he recites a litany of curses in his mind, every dirty word he can think of in every language he speaks, trying to drown out the steady, merciless thumping of boots behind him on the stairs.

He leads Porthos into a room half-way along the corridor – not the same room he's just been fucked in, that would be unbearable – and goes to lean against the edge of the washstand. Whatever this is, he wants to be standing for it.

As Porthos closes the door behind him, Aramis forces himself to look the other man in the face; and if he'd had any doubt in his mind about whether he's been well and truly caught, the expression on Porthos' face confirms it.

He's not sure he could fully describe it even if he wanted to, but the one word that comes steadily to mind is _knowing_.

Porthos stays standing more or less in the doorway, folding his arms and just regarding him expectantly, in an unconscious echo of Thierry's posture as he waited to fuck him; and Aramis has to stifle a sudden, stupid urge to laugh.

"Good evening," Aramis says, because it seems as good a place to start as any; and if there's one rule he's learned from years of being a lover of women, it's that you never confess your indiscretions until faced with incontrovertible proof of them.

Porthos simply raises an eyebrow, still with that unreadable expression that does _not_ belong on someone who's simply come to check how his comrade's doing with a mission. "Got anything to tell me?"

But apparently that rule which has served him so well for so long has finally met its match, as Aramis feels the last of his bravado crumbling around him, and he can no longer meet Porthos' eyes. There doesn't seem any point in lying.

"No," Aramis sighs, defeated.

He doesn’t want to talk about it; in fact it would suit him just fine if they could never mention it again. But he knows that Porthos isn't Athos, and he can't expect that to work this time. Bloody man's like a dog with a bone when he gets going, and any second now he will start asking questions.

And Aramis will tell him everything he wants to hear, even though it will almost certainly alienate and disgust him, because he can no more resist Porthos than he could the fucking Spanish inquisition.

"I've been watching the front door all evening," Porthos begins, deceptively casually, pacing back and forth across the room; and Aramis sighs to himself, because _of course_ he bloody has. Of course Athos wouldn't trust him to just get the job done. "I saw our mark leave over an hour ago. You know which girl?"

"Five foot two or so, Bordeaux accent, brunette with a long nose. Her name's Élodie."

"Right. So I thought to myself, he'll be out soon. But then you didn't come."

"I asked Édith if I could stay all week," Aramis replies, rubbing the back of his neck – which he knows is a tell, but he's past caring. "I thought it would look too suspicious if I was only here for one evening."

"Nobody told me that," Porthos replies; and Aramis doesn't bother saying _well_ _nobody told me you were bloody watching_ , because there's clearly no point any more. "So I thought I'd better come in and make sure everything was alright. Figured I could get myself a nice girl, for cover. But then the madam said you were upstairs. With a _punter_."

Aramis bites his lip, not trusting himself to say anything that would actually help the situation, still very much not looking at Porthos. He wonders briefly if Édith even believed that he needed the post for 'military business', as he somewhat vaguely claimed, or if she's thought the entire time that he truly is here to sell himself.

"So you just thought you'd have a _bit of fun_ , am I right?" Porthos says as if he's trying the expression out, as if it leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. "With that posh bastard, in the embroidered doublet?"

There's nothing left to do but tell the truth.

"Yes," Aramis replies, gripping the edge of the washstand to keep himself steady, finally making himself meet Porthos' eyes.

When he loses his best friend, he wants to at least be man enough to watch him walk away.

"And what did he get for his money?"

Aramis flinches. He can't imagine Porthos really wants to know the sordid details anyway, isn't sure why he's even asking now that Aramis has admitted what he's done.

He wishes the man would stop bloody pacing.

Just as Aramis has hardened his heart as much as he can bear for an outburst, or a hasty exit, Porthos does neither – instead stopping dead in the middle of the room, and fixing Aramis with a look that's… well, still unreadable, but certainly seems a lot less volatile than it had a few seconds ago.

"When Athos agreed to you selling your sword, I don't think this was quite what he meant."

Aramis somehow manages to choke on thin air.

Fortunately there's a glass on the washstand, and as he pours himself some water and tries valiantly to stop coughing, he's bought himself a few precious seconds to try and make sense of the situation.

Porthos was angry – but not _just_ angry, Aramis knows very well how Porthos looks when he's angry, and this was angry mixed with something he doesn't understand. Something that looked a lot like hurt. And now the anger has drained away, only to leave the part he can't identify.

Aramis jumps at a sudden grip on his arm, and turns back to face Porthos, who's got very close all of a sudden.

"Easy. You okay?"

"Yes, something just went down the wrong way," Aramis replies, voice scratchy.

Porthos raises his eyebrow. "So what do _I_ get for my money?"

"What would you want for your money?" Aramis replies without thinking – and it's supposed to be a joke, the way they've spoken to each other for years, but as the words come out of his mouth he finally manages to interpret Porthos' expression. It's caution, and it's desire – and the way he looked before was not just anger but jealousy, and suddenly Aramis understands all too well.  

And it's immediately obvious to both of them that Aramis himself isn't joking.

For a moment, Porthos doesn't speak, or even move, just stares at him; and Aramis feels the panic pressing up against the edges of his skull, because _what_ _if he's got this wrong?_

Then Porthos weaves his sword hand up into Aramis' hair at the base of his skull and yanks hard, jerking his head backwards – and Aramis _gasps_ , can't help it, he's weak for this man, has been for years, and this promises to undo him utterly.

"I'd want you on your knees," Porthos growls, "sucking my cock, while we discuss just what it is you're willing to do for coin. That on the menu?"

"Absolutely," Aramis breathes.

He couldn't have made a better suggestion himself.

After one more stock-still second, during which Porthos seems to establish for himself that they're actually going to do this, he lets go of Aramis' hair and shoves him down hard by the shoulders, and Aramis sinks obediently to his knees almost before he's aware of doing so.

"Better get on with it then," Porthos says gruffly; and while half of Aramis wants to roll his eyes because this is Porthos, the other half of him counters that he's never imagined this in his wildest fantasies, wouldn't have dared, and he determines to take it utterly seriously.

He's going to savour this, he decides, remember every second and lock it in the innermost chambers of his heart – so that even if he never gets the chance again, he'll have this one pure, perfect memory, beyond the reach of anyone or anything.

Aramis' fingers fumble at the buttons of Porthos' breeches, and he has to take a conscious breath and tell himself to focus before he can finally get them open, going straight to the laces beneath, fingers brushing the bulge of Porthos' half-hard cock and making him groan with pleasure.

As he pushes the linen to one side at last and draws him out, thick and warm in his hands, Aramis' mouth is suddenly dry. _This is Porthos_ , he thinks dazedly, taking him in hand and stroking, flushing with pleasure at the rumble that runs through the other man's chest in response.

"I thought I said your mouth, not your hands," Porthos growls. His eyebrow's raised, but Aramis sees something cautious in his face too and realises it's a question, that Porthos is asking if this is how he wants him to be.

Aramis can't think of anything he'd want more.

He nods hurriedly. "Forgive me, monsieur," he replies, deliberately licking his lips and enjoying the way Porthos' breath hitches in response, before gripping the base of his cock with his sword hand and sliding his lips over the head without further hesitation.

It's indescribable. Aramis feels as though language has deserted him; the only word in his mind is _good, good_ , though saying _good_ is completely inadequate to describe the emotions that tumble through him as Porthos swells in his mouth.

 _This is Porthos,_ he thinks again, _this is Porthos, I'm sucking his cock_ , and that in itself is everything.

"Look at me," Porthos commands, and Aramis slides his mouth back up, rubbing his tongue generously over the frenulum. "I want you to remember whose prick you're sucking. Who paid for you."

As if he could forget.

"I've got some questions, but you needn't stop what you're doing," Porthos continues, moving his hands from Aramis' shoulders to the back of his head, pushing him forward until his cockhead nudges against the entrance to Aramis' throat – not pushing hard, but just enough to make him feel deliciously used.

"Hum once for yes and twice for no. Did you plan this the whole time?"

 _No_ , Aramis hums low in his throat, arousal thrumming through his body as he responds. He knew it would all come out eventually, but he certainly wasn't expecting it to be so much fun.

"Hmm," Porthos rumbles; whether from pleasure or suspicion, Aramis can't tell. "The opportunity just came up and you decided, why not?"

 _Yes_.

"Posh, wasn't he?" Porthos continues, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "You like them like that?

_Yes._

"You like a bit of rough as well?"

_Yes._

"You like anyone who'll use you, don’t you?"

 _Yes,_ Aramis replies, flushing with desire and heart hammering at his ribs as he relaxes all the muscles in his throat and swallows Porthos right down. He's rewarded with a groan and a bitten-off curse that makes his own cock throb and press insistently against his smalls, even though he's come not half an hour before.

"You've done this before," Porthos growls, and he's not convinced it's a question, but Aramis hums _yes_ all the same.

And with that acknowledgement, Porthos weaves both his hands deep into the back of Aramis' hair and pulls him back until only the head of Porthos' cock is still in his mouth. Aramis flicks his eyes up – and there's a tenderness in Porthos' gaze, only Porthos could look tenderly at him at a time like this – before he's pulled forward again as Porthos sheathes his cock to the hilt, and starts to fuck Aramis' throat in earnest.

Nobody has ever done this for him, and Aramis has never felt more right or more _home_ than he does in this moment, as he takes his hands from Porthos' hips altogether and clasps hand to wrist behind his back, closing his eyes and relaxing into Porthos' grip, giving himself up and letting himself be used.

He's known for years that he can never be happier than when he's entirely in Porthos' hands.

He supposes he can't expect his comrade to last long like this, and though Aramis is seriously short of breath and is starting to get light-headed, it still seems to him all too soon that Porthos pulls him flush against his body, yanking painfully hard on his hair, as he comes down his throat with a shuddering groan.

Aramis swallows automatically, before sliding slowly back and off, lips caressing all the way to the head. He presses his cheek to Porthos' leather-clad hip, closing his eyes again, trying to suppress a cough as he realises how raw his throat feels.

He feels Porthos' hand come to caress his jaw, but doesn't move or open his eyes, reluctant to say or do anything to break this tranquillity. He's still aroused, but pleasantly so, a feeling he can simply appreciate without needing to sate it.

"Aramis," Porthos says softly, requesting his attention; and as he leans back, Porthos squats down until they're level, before taking Aramis' face in both hands and kissing him hard.

Aramis sighs against his lips, mouth opening to the insistent pressure of Porthos' tongue, delving, claiming. It's a lover's kiss; and this is home too, Aramis realises, _Porthos_ is home, and Aramis wants to wrap himself around and climb inside him a hundred times until they can no longer be separated.

Though he feels like he could kiss Porthos forever, eventually the other man pulls away, standing again with a creak of leather, tucking his softening cock away and re-buttoning his breeches. "You're here every night this week?"

"Yes," Aramis replies with a sigh, standing as well and stretching his back out, "or until you catch him in the act." _Sod the mission_ , he thinks violently for a second, wanting nothing more than to take Porthos home and fuck him until they're both thoroughly exhausted. And then do it all over again.

"Hmm," is all Porthos says, with that soft expression again, pressing his thumb against the corner of Aramis' mouth for a second; before he drops his hand, and his face widens into a familiar grin. "I'll see myself out."

Porthos reaches into his pocket, pulls out something that glints in the light and sends it spinning into the air, and Aramis catches the object in his palm. It's a silver franc piece, with a noticeable nick in one side, which he knows Porthos has carried for years.

Now his, for services rendered.

It's more than just a coin: it's a promise.

* * *

It takes Porthos and Athos another three days to follow the thread of information Aramis gave them to its source – the largest counterfeiting ring Paris has seen in years – and it doesn't come a second too soon for Aramis, who decides that he would have hired a real sellsword to stand guard in his place if the operation had gone on any longer.

After the excitement of his first evening at the brothel, the following days dragged to the point where he thought he'd be driven mad by it. Partly because of how unnecessary his contribution became, guarding against a non-existent threat while missing out on the exciting part of a mission, but mainly because all he's thought of since that first night is Porthos.

 _Porthos_ , and the fact that he actually got what he'd thought he could never have.

He fingers the coin in his pocket absently, as he has been doing for days, running his index finger over edges that are already worn smooth, as if Porthos has been doing the same thing himself for years. It leads his thoughts inevitably to Porthos' own fingers, how they would feel on his throat, his ribs, his cock, pushing inside him –

He jumps at a sudden pressure on his arm, and feels suddenly flushed, caught in the act. These are no thoughts to be having outside the privacy of his own chamber.

It's Athos, of course, looking at him with a considering expression that Aramis has long since learned to be wary of.

He glances instinctively across the table, where Porthos and d'Artagnan are having a lively debate about something or other, and paying the two of them no mind.

"Something happened." Athos' voice is pitched low, not intended to carry. "You've been acting strangely. Him too," he continues, looking significantly at Porthos.

If Aramis had to sum up his personal philosophy, he would do so thus: shoot straight; love indiscriminately; tell Athos as little as possible.

"You sent him to check up on me!" he hisses accusingly. Though he's not _really_ annoyed about it any more, it's his best opportunity for misdirection.

Athos just gives him a hard look. "And you're surprised?"

"I got the information. Anything further is my business," Aramis counters. It comes out more defensively than he intended.

Athos stares at him for a long moment, before sighing and removing his hand from Aramis' arm. "I doubt I'd want to know anyway."

Aramis turns away from him – just in time, as Porthos and d'Artagnan seem to have settled their discussion, and drains his glass. He calls out for another bottle of wine; and because he is nothing if not an utter bastard, waits until Athos puts his own cup to his lips before flashing Porthos' silver franc ostentatiously and announcing, "Drinks are on me tonight, gentlemen. I find I've come into some money."

In the ensuing turmoil, Athos is too busy trying not to choke to notice the look Aramis and Porthos share over d'Artagnan's head, rich with meaning and intention.

The moon is up as the four of them finally stumble from the tavern, and as they walk onto the main street, Aramis feels another hand pull at his sleeve – d'Artagnan, this time, who as usual has no face for cards. Aramis can practically see the question the other man's bursting to ask.

"Did something happen at the brothel?" he whispers, and Aramis keeps his own face carefully blank as he studies d'Artagnan's expression – curious, intrigued, but mostly just confused.

Aramis pats him on the head in response, which predictably makes him splutter with indignation. "Dear d'Artagnan, you mustn't be so suspicious," he replies playfully. "You'll end up like Athos if you're not careful."

d'Artagnan huffs at him in response, before stalking off in the direction of his own lodgings.

"Naughty," Porthos says in a low voice right by his ear. Aramis hadn't noticed him approach.

"Ignorance is bliss," Aramis comments lightly; suppressing the invitation that's beating hard at his ribcage, waiting to see if Porthos will make the first move.

It's barely a moment before he feels a grip around his wrist, possessive and sure. "I've got a good bottle of brandy back at mine," Porthos murmurs, tone full of promise. "Think you can help me with it?"

"Just lead the way."


End file.
